McMurtrie and Drake: Between Black and White Part 17

A second message came in on top of the first.

And make it look good.

Bone smiled. He always did.

He glanced at his watch, then looked around. It was already past 1:00 a.m., and outside of the few stragglers in The Boathouse, Bone saw no one around. The dock below was completely deserted except for Drake and the dancer, and there was very little light.

Perfect, he thought, taking a small sip of beer and placing it on the railing. Bone felt for the gun inside the front of his shorts. His pockets were too tight for the .38, so he'd stuffed it down the front of his shorts and let his loose-fitting T-s.h.i.+rt hang over it.

Slowly and softly, Bone began to walk down the wooden steps to the dock. Both the stripper and Drake had come to The Boathouse from the parking lot. When he got to the bottom of the steps, he saw them.

Drake's life is over, Bone knew, stepping behind the stairs and into the shadows. Killing the lawyer, he'd already determined, was going to be necessary. The boy, along with McMurtrie, had cost Bone a lot of money last year. And the El Camino . . .

He took the gun out of his shorts and waited. They would have to come back to these steps to get to the parking lot. When they did . . .

He flipped the gun so that he was holding the weapon by its barrel. He'd hit them both with the b.u.t.t end and toss their limp bodies in the harbor. Bone could almost see the headline in the paper. "Accidental Drowning Claims Lives of Young Man and Woman."

Bone smiled, waiting . . .

38.

"Hey, I'm talking to you," Darla said, squeezing her hands into fists and lightly tapping Rick on the stomach. "Do you think Larry could be involved in Mr. Walton's murder?"

Rick hadn't even heard the question the first time she'd asked it. He was still looking at the water, thinking it through in his mind. a.s.suming that Larry Tucker was one of the ten men who partic.i.p.ated in the lynching of Roosevelt Haynes in 1966, then he would have every reason to want to stop Andy Walton's confession.

Motive, Rick thought. Larry Tucker had motive. He was also the owner of the Sundowners Club, the scene of the crime. Opportunity. Rick felt his heart pounding in his chest. We might have an alternative theory . . .

"When did you tell Mr. Tucker about Mr. Walton's plan to confess?"

"The same night Mr. Walton told me about it."

"So two weeks before the murder?"

Darla nodded, and her eyes were wide with fear. "Do you think Larry-?"

"I don't know," Rick interrupted. "I think it's possible that Mr. Tucker was involved. We represent Bocephus Haynes, who has been charged with the murder, but he has pled not guilty. If Bo is innocent of the charges, then-"

"Someone else did it," Darla completed the thought. "And you think it might be Larry."

"Was Larry in the Klan with Andy?"

Darla crossed her arms and shrugged. "I don't know. I just know they had been friends for . . ." She stopped and placed her hand over her mouth. "There were others. Of course . . . Mr. Haynes was killed by the Ku Klux Klan, and Mr. Walton was just one of the men." She paused, her eyes wide. "You think Larry was one of them." It wasn't a question.

"I do," Rick said. "But I can't prove it right now. a.s.suming he was and he found out that Andy was going to confess . . ."

"Oh, Jesus, it's my fault then," Darla said. "I'm the one who told him." Her voice cracked, and she sat down on the bench. She crossed her arms and began to rock back and forth. "After all Mr. Walton did for me . . ."

"You didn't know," Rick said, sitting beside her. "Besides . . ." He sighed. "It's just a theory."

For several minutes they both just sat there. Arms crossed, gazing out at the water. The only sounds were Darla's sniffles. Finally, she wiped her eyes. "I would have made it here without him," she said, her voice determined. "I was two years away from saving enough. I didn't need a sugar daddy." She sighed. "But he helped me. I . . . no one ever did anything for me before. If I'm somehow responsible for his death . . ."

"He was dying," Rick said. "It wouldn't have been much longer."

She nodded. "Still . . . it's not right."

"I agree, but you can't blame yourself. You did what you thought was right. That's all anyone can do." Then a thought struck him like a thunderbolt. "Did you tell the sheriff's department or DA's office about any of this? Andy saying he was going to confess, and you telling Larry Tucker about it?"

"They didn't ask. All they wanted to know was what I saw the last night Mr. Walton was with me, and they told me to write a statement. They said they would schedule another interview with me, but I guess I left town before they could talk to me again."

Rick turned and gazed into the depths of the dark water. Larry Tucker is our killer, he thought. Has to be . . .

"It's late," Darla said, snapping Rick back into the present.

"Ms. Ford, I really appreciate your time tonight. You've been very helpful."

She looked at him and smiled. "You got a place to stay tonight, sailor?"

Rick creased his eyebrows. "Ms. Ford, I really can't-"

"Relax, I'm not going to seduce you. Though if you keep calling me Ms. Ford, I may have to." She laughed. "Come on," Darla said, taking him by the hand.

Walking on worn-out legs, Rick followed her.

Where are they going? Bone thought. The stripper and Drake were not walking toward him. They were moving in the opposite direction.

Bone started to move, but then just as quickly he stopped and became calm, realizing what was happening. They were walking down a series of docks that would all wind back to these stairs. After they strolled around, looking at the boats, they'd have to come right back here.

Bone took a deep breath and wiped his hands on his shorts. Patience, he thought. Patience.

"Where are we going?" Rick asked, curious as to why they were walking farther down the dock as opposed to going up the stairs and back out to the highway.

"My place," Darla said.

Rick started to ask another question when Darla abruptly stopped and gestured with her right arm. "Ta-da," she said.

It was a pontoon boat. One of the fog lights was on, and Rick could make out that the boat was a tan color with green trim. The word "Sweetness" was etched on the side.

"What do you think?" Darla asked, her voice expectant.

"This is your place?" Rick asked, noticing that Peter Burns was sprawled out on two of the seats, either asleep or pa.s.sed out. Darla stepped down into the boat and held out her hand.

"No, silly," Darla said. "This is my boat. My place is over there." She pointed to Holiday Isle, and Rick couldn't help but smile. The day just kept getting crazier and crazier.

Son of a . . .

Bone started walking when he saw them step onto the boat. Then he broke into a run, knowing he would be too late.

A boat. The stripper had a boat. How could that be? He'd seen her enter the restaurant from the parking lot. How could he possibly have known she'd have a boat?

He ran down the dock, holding the gun at his side, his eyes darting in every direction. The other boats appeared to be empty. As the boat with Drake and the stripper left the dock and began to merge into the harbor, Bone pointed his weapon at them. With the silencer he might still be able to . . .

"Mr. Wheeler!"

The killer spun around at the sound of his name and saw a man with a salt and pepper beard wearing a black cowboy hat who was pointing a pistol at his chest.

"JimBone Wheeler, I presume?" The man was walking toward him. "Put the gun down and get on your knees."

Bone cut his eyes wildly to his left and right.

"Nowhere to go, JimBone," the man said. "Or do you prefer Bone for short?"

How could anyone possibly have found him? Bone wondered, forcing his mind to remain calm. "Who are you?"

"Wade Richey, Tuscaloosa County Sheriff's Office," the man said, holding up a badge. "And you're under arrest."

As the man stepped into the light, Bone saw that Richey resembled the actor Sam Elliott from his Tombstone and Roadhouse days.

"Not today, friend," Bone said.

And then he jumped into Destin Harbor.

39.

"I think I may have hit him," Wade said, talking rapidly into the phone. "I got two shots off, and I think I may have nicked him on the leg."

"Are you sure it was Wheeler?" Tom asked, his voice barely registering under the hum of police sirens. Twenty-five minutes had pa.s.sed since JimBone Wheeler took a dive into the harbor, and the place was now crawling with officers from the Destin Police Department and deputies from the Okaloosa County Sheriff's Office.

"Positive," Wade said. "I called him by his name, and he spun around immediately. He looked the part too. Same height. Had a beard. I didn't get a good view of his eyes because he had his hat pulled down low, but it was definitely him."

Out on the water, three police boats were moving slowly up and down the harbor. Officers on board were s.h.i.+ning lights in every direction, and one man spoke into a bullhorn. "Mr. Wheeler, get out of the water. Mr. Wheeler, you are surrounded. Get out of the water now."

"All right, keep me posted, Wade," Tom said. "Wheeler survived a jump off the Northport Bridge last summer and was able to make it out of the Black Warrior River alive. He's a survivor."

Wade watched as police lights continued to flood the harbor in every direction. "I don't see how he makes it out of this harbor, Tom. It's covered with cops on both sides. Unless the son of a b.i.t.c.h is half fish, I just don't see it. We'll either apprehend him, or his body is drifting along the floor of the Gulf."

There was a pause on the other end of the line as Tom took in the information. "What about Rick?" he finally asked.

"He left the harbor by boat with the stripper. They were out a ways when I shot at Wheeler, so I doubt they heard it."

"He left with her by boat?"

"Yeah," Wade said.

"Find him, Wade. If Wheeler somehow did survive . . ."

"Ten-four," Wade broke in. "I'll have him before the sun rises."

40.

As the sun began to peek its head above the eastern horizon, Rick Drake's eyes shot open, and both hands grabbed for his left calf muscle. Cramp, cramp, cramp, he thought, holding in a scream of pain as he twisted and rolled off the cus.h.i.+oned seats of the boat and onto the floor. He tried to straighten his leg, but the muscle had completely seized up on him, and he writhed on the floor of the boat in pain.

"Kid, are you all right?" a voice came from behind him in the dark, and Rick turned, eyes wide, as adrenaline poured through his body. What . . . ? Who . . . ? He squinted, seeing a dark shape on the dock above, crouching to look at him as he lay on his back, holding his calf. He rubbed the muscle hard, but it was still seized, and Rick bit his lip.

"Cramp?" the voice asked.

"Yeah," Rick managed, continuing to rub furiously on the calf as his leg slowly began to relax, the cramp gradually easing. Rick sucked in a quick breath. "Who are you?"

"Wade Richey," the man said, flas.h.i.+ng his badge. "Detective, Tuscaloosa County Sheriff's Office."

Rick creased his eyebrows. "Tuscaloosa?"

Wade nodded. "Our office has escalated its investigation into the whereabouts of JimBone Wheeler." He paused. "Your partner suggested that he thought JimBone was following him and you, so I trailed you last night to Destin and"-he sighed-"I think we got him."

"My partner?" Rick scratched his head and tried to stand, putting both hands on one of the seats and pulling himself up. He stumbled when he tried to put any weight on his left leg. "The Professor asked you to trail me?" Rick blinked his eyes, adjusting to the dark, which was becoming lighter by the second as the sun slowly rose behind them. Peter Burns was still pa.s.sed out on the seat across from him, snoring loudly and oblivious to anything that was going on.

"Yeah, it was Tom's idea. And it worked. Wheeler was here, and I . . . think we got him."

Rick felt his body go cold. "He was here. You mean . . . ?"

"He was watching you and the girl. When y'all stepped into the boat, he ran down the dock and was about to shoot at you, but I got there first."

"Jesus," Rick said. "I didn't have a clue. I . . ." He felt his calf begin to seize again, so he plopped down on the seat below him, rubbing the muscle with both hands. "JimBone Wheeler was here," Rick said, still not believing it.

"He was."

"How do you know it was him?"

"Because I called his name on the dock and he turned around. I spoke to him using his name, and he didn't try to correct me."

"What happened? Where is-?"